


A Song And A Poem

by ruiseu



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Historical, Joseon Period, Kissing, M/M, Philosophy, Politics, Romance, mentions of dubcon/past dubcon, slight depiction of owner-slave relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:21:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25543561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruiseu/pseuds/ruiseu
Summary: Summer of 1395;The tale of Kim Jongin searching for what it means to be human, and finding a certain Doh Kyungsoo to show him along the way.
Relationships: Do Kyungsoo | D.O/Kim Jongin | Kai
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15
Collections: Kaifectionery Round 4





	A Song And A Poem

Jongin’s father taught him to be human above all.  
  


  
In the wake of his passing memory, Jongin has never wanted to embody something more than his father’s own tenets. There’s something about abeonim’s strung-out words that help Jongin get by, day to day, as he carries them around like a bittersweet reminder, a pointed knife in his hollow chest.  
  
But of course, Jongin’s work is heavily hinged around metaphysical ideologies. Rationalism in Neo-Confucianism is important, because now is, after all, the rise of Joseon. Everything in (plain) hindsight is changing, withering along the remains of Goryeo. They’ve reformed into humanistic teachings, because there’s the belief that reality has always existed, and it could only be understood by humankind. That it was up to humanity to create a harmonious relationship between the universe and the prevailing individual.  
  
With this, Jongin has long accepted his reality- as human, he’s learned to concur with the universe that the inevitable had truly won, some years ago, that the old man he knew no longer exists to feed him his favorite apples and pears, or take him to the library on Sunday mornings. The universe has left him to grieve at the memory of a lost smile, a warm comforting hug, subtle encouragements from wrinkly eyes resembling just like his, the pain of a boy who lost his own father to bitter death. Jongin dealt with it all— in the best way he knew how— burying his nose under books and antediluvian scriptures, serving the nation under a quotidian guise, praying for the harmonious relationship that could only be understood through human reason. It’s difficult, he’s long realized. He only hopes it will all be worth it in the end.

  
  
  
•  
•  
•  
  


  
  
“How long has it been?”  
  
Taemin balks, sauntering alongside Jongin as they make their way through the hallways. He usually isn’t one to comment about the muddled silence, or even the arbitrary bouts of indifference. If Taemin deems it disquieting enough to be brought up, out loud, Jongin figures he at least owes him an answer.  
  
“Seven years.”  
  
A tap on the back— it’s all Taemin could convey presently, and yet it’s louder, probably better than leaving a few seamless words hanging in the air. After all, Taemin did grow up with him, had been a weekly visitor at their old house, had shared those red apples with him every after playtime.  
  
Jongin stays mum. It’s always been one of those things that doesn’t require his instant, thespian reaction.  
  
  
They’ve reached the northwest wing of the palace, footsteps lithe and slightly frisky along the polished wooden floors. When Taemin swivels a foot towards the royal library, Jongin turns to the opposite direction.  
  
“Aren’t you coming with me?”  
  
“I’m going to Junmyeon-hyung first. You go ahead, I’ll see you in a while.”

  
  
Jongin has to pass by the yangban’s quarters— the ruling class of civil servants, military officials and aristocrats further exemplified as literati— before reaching the Special Advisors’. It’s a dismay, because Jongin has hardly ever been fond of the coterie ever since. Everyone has ample knowledge of the dirt they do behind their backs, even the King and the State Councilors themselves, yet their wealth and influence serve as an aide-memoire that money and power can indeed pay for tolerance. The yangban have been running free, on high royal grounds and their overly expensive estates, while innocent common people are suffering from the outturns of their corruption, forced to live off of slavery and barely meager means.  
  
The thought alone makes Jongin sullen as he strolls through the walkway, and he almost trips on his own feet when a person emerges, unceremoniously, from one of the rooms in front of him.  
  
It’s swift, a tad bit hasty, but Jongin takes sight of large, dark eyes and a salient mouth. The young man’s hanbok is a bit disheveled, his silk shoes almost out of place. He almost misses it, but beneath the tousled pretense is also the face of fear and discomfort, and Jongin sees it between the furrow of thick eyebrows as the said man gives him a glance, a quick bow, before proceeding to walk away with hasty footsteps.  
  
Not long after, Jo Insung comes out from the same room.  
  
_Oh. That must’ve been_... Jongin drifts off in thought, bitterly. While he’s been generally displeased with the existence of the yangban, he isn’t most particularly solicitous of Insung. Jongin has, unfortunately, known him to be the worst of their kind.  
  
“Good evening, Jongin-ssi.” Insung bows, plastering a polite smile on his face.  
  
“Insung-ssi,” Jongin returns the greeting, subtly peering at the man in front of him. There’s a knowing glint in his eyes. Good, because Jongin sees blatantly through it, and it’s nice to know Insung shares the same premise.  
  
“Heading off somewhere?”  
  
“Just our quarters,” Jongin notes the eager stance. “How about you?”  
  
“Have you seen pretty boy coming out of my room recently?”  
  
Insung addresses it just like that, and the way he calls the obviously shaken man ‘pretty boy’, like some novelty or fleeting play thing, makes something inside of Jongin simmer in chagrin. It’s no surprise, coming from the yangban himself. If Jongin could only scoff at the notorious display of ego and imprudence right in front of Insung’s face, he really would.  
  
“No,” Jongin states, face blank.  
  
Insung hums, clearly in doubt. Jongin watches him keenly, patiently waiting should the man decides to pester him more. When Insung heaves a sigh, culminating, Jongin takes it upon himself to spare them both the long, insufferable time around each other. He slightly bows, crafting the most decent smile his face could momentarily muster.  
  
“If I may, I would like to go now, Insung-ssi. I believe Taemin has been waiting for me back at the library.”  
  
Insung waves, a bit casually. “Of course, of course. My apologies for the bother, Jongin-ssi. Have a good night ahead.”  
  
Jongin’s greeting had been crisp in return, and so was the wilting smile on his mouth. When he finally reaches Junmyeon’s room, the older man notices an ordeal painted all over Jongin’s face, the younger looking like a child who’s failed the last arrow in archery. Junmyeon frowns.  
  
“Jongin-ah, is something wrong?”  
  
Jongin looks up immediately, clearing the visible strain off his features. Surely, the last thing he wants is for the Deputy Chief Scholar to worry about him on a hectic night like this.  
  
“N-nothing, Junmyeon hyung,” He simply shrugs. “Just wanted to ask you about _Samguk Sagi_...”  
  
  
  
  
  
•  
•  
•  
  
  


  
  
  
Jongin sees him again, a few weeks after.  
  
  
It’s an eventful day, it being the born day of none other the Crown Prince himself. He’s finally reached the age of 18, thus more than befitting to be next in line for the throne. The banquet is, unsurprisingly, grand, and they’ve invited a few regal families from the neighboring kingdoms.  
  
The young man from before, Jongin ultimately finds out, is a court musician. The guests and attendees are currently feasting in their seats, goldongban and stuffed sea bream casserole served at the height of the festivity. Said man is currently at the center of the room, singing in his deep, rich voice; notes and syllables enunciated in smooth staccatos as the Gayagyeum plucks through the swelter of the background noise.  
  
Jongin realizes he likes the voice. Very much.  
  
“Do you...do you know him?” He turns to Taemin, who is pouring himself some rare wine from Jeju.  
  
“Who?”  
  
“Him. The court musician.”  
  
Taemin bats an eye, looking over the sizeable dinner table to catch a glimpse of said person.  
  
“Oh, him.”  
  
“So you _do_ know him?”  
  
Taemin raises an eyebrow at the levity in Jongin’s voice, to which the latter weakly tries to downplay by clearing his throat and appearing as nonchalant as possible.  
  
“Uh, yeah, he’s Sehun friend. Apparently a newcomer, just over a month ago.”  
  
“He’s been here for over a month? But I just saw him a few weeks ago.”  
  
“Don’t act so surprised now,” Taemin quips, biting on a grape. “We’re not the ones sticking our asses between book shelves, barely coming out from its confines. Wallowing in fresh air is really nice, Jongin. You should try it sometimes.”  
  
Jongin frowns at this. He knows he’s been unusually forlorn lately, and that his fellow scholars have taken notice of the long hours and his incessant requests to sleep in the library.  
  
Appalled by the sudden silence, Taemin decides to yield into Jongin’s curiosity.  
  
“Sehun calls him Kyungsoo hyung. I heard them talking once.”  
  
“Oh,” Jongin answers, hesitating, quietly testing the name on his tongue. “ _Kyungsoo_..”  
  
“You have to be wary, though. He’s one of Insung’s... you know...”  
  
It takes Jongin a moment to realize that the song had already ended, that Kyungsoo and the rest of the musicians have left the center stage with the minimal, surrounding applause. It’s by then Jongin sees Kyungsoo being called to the yangban’s column, a snide-looking Insung forcing him to sit by his side, seemingly wanting to put him in place among the muster of concubines. The cuisine perches like ambrosia on top of Kyungsoo’s bronze plate, but the man refuses to eat, only looking disinterested and stipulated at every passing minute while Insung continues to play god at the table.  
  
“I can see that...” Jongin mutters, jaw tightening at the scene before him. Taemin notices the hard, firm grip of Jongin’s hand around the cutlery, but before he could raise the concern, the Royal Herald enters and stands in the middle of the Royal Hall, reminding everyone of the statutory toast for the Crown Prince’s event.  
  
They arise from their seats, drinking vessels raised along in their hands, and altogether the entirety of Gyeongbokgung calls for the prosperity and long life of the current ruling family, hopeful for the opulence of a rising dynasty.

  
  
  
  
•  
•  
•

  
  
  
It’s on a tepid afternoon in June when Byun Baekhyun barges in the study, haphazardly begging for Jongin and Sehun’s company in the midst of their research work.  
  
Jongin had wanted to work on a poem, but he doesn’t know where to begin. He looks at Sehun and is astounded to see the younger already packing his scrolls, placing the ink pen back in its petuntse holder. Jongin taps for his attention.  
  
“Excuse me, don’t you have work to do?”  
  
Sehun all but rolls his eyes. “Come on, Jongin. Just watermelon and a quick walk outside, please? I promise to come back after.”  
  
“Hey busy boy, I’m sure a few minutes won’t hurt,” Baekhyun chimes in, daring to close one of the carefully propped books on Jongin’s table. “When was the last time you went to the palace gardens?”  
  
“And when was the last time you actually helped Junmyeon-hyung with anything?” Jongin deadpans at the elder, knowing fully well it would tug at a few strings. Baekhyun is the Right Minister, fundamentally serving as assistant to Junmyeon. “In case you forgot, you have daily lessons with the King, his Majesty, Baekhyun-ssi.”  
  
“For certain, Jongin-ah,” Baekhyun means to challenge. “At least the King himself knows even I deserve a quick break from a feverish day!”  
  
Jongin sighs, not really wanting to engage in an argument with Baekhyun at the moment. It’s a chaotic waste of time and energy, because he knows the older man wouldn’t give in until he gets his favor. Jongin stares at the empty canvas on his desk, a minute too long, presumably long enough for the papery surface to stare back and remind him that he has zero inspiration to create this piece— which is, still, a lost cause.  
  
With a curse under his breath, Jongin slowly stands up from his seat, effectively dragging the attention towards him and his creaking chair.  
  
“I guess the library does feel a lot warmer today. Hurry up before I change my mind.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
They’re walking along the open palace grounds, embroidered shoes sounding strident and heavy along the concrete. Their chatter gets lost in the soft singing of magpies and the zephyr of imminent summer, peonies and tulips of multiple colors standing in full bloom under the warmth of the afternoon sun. The grass shows a healthy quilt of lush green, and if Baekhyun isn’t looking too full of himself at present, Jongin would love to tell him this was a good idea after all.  
  
  
“This is a surprise,” Taemin joins them shortly, confounded at Jongin’s presence. And so, he teases his friend relentlessly, laughing when Jongin gets nudged and an amused scowl begins to grow on his face.  
  
“Hey, watch it, or else I’m going to have to return to the peace and quiet of my exalted library,” Jongin’s voice shakes, diligently stopping himself from a telltale outburst of laughter. _This is....nice_ , he thinks. He’s starting to feel these jolts of joy from inside of him, no matter how small.  
  
Baekhyun suddenly hollers, rather excitedly, and he’s running ahead with Sehun following at his tail like a puppy. Jongin cranes his neck to see the little fuss, and it’s when he sees _Kyungsoo_ , whole face smiling, that his chest starts to feel strange and jumpy. It almost seems humorous, even to Jongin himself.  
  
They’re by one of the smaller lakes, and Kyungsoo had been taking his time feeding the schools of Koi and Japanese smelt. The waters appear calm and pristine at this time of the day. Sehun takes the liberty to formally introduce Kyungsoo to his friends, and Jongin suddenly finds it hard to speak when the young man finally lays his eyes on him, for the first time, since the happenstance outside Insung’s room and Jongin’s castaway glances at the royal banquet a few weeks ago.  
  
“Hello, Jongin-ssi. It’s nice to meet you.”  
  
“It’s nice to meet you as well, Kyungsoo-ssi.” Jongin takes in the surprisingly deep voice. It’s an apparent contrast to the soft features on his face, like Poinsettia against sandpaper, but he still likes it. Very much so. Jongin returns the bow, briefly wondering if Kyungsoo even recognizes him from their short encounter.  
  
“I haven’t really seen you around here, Jongin-ssi... but you do look familiar though,” Kyungsoo smiles, all pure and unfeigned.  
  
Jongin chortles, “Ah yes, I usually spend most of my time inside the library. I’m very much glad I took the time to visit the outdoors today, though.”  
  
  
It’s plodding, not really something Jongin would account as monumental in his current state, but as they continue to walk around the palace, him and Taemin leisurely strolling behind the group, Jongin would catch Kyungsoo’s subtle glances, the man peering at him in clandestine through dainty eyelashes as he converses with Sehun about prose and elegies. Everytime they lock eyes, Jongin would give him a small grin, and Kyungsoo would break into small, shy smiles in response.

  
It’s nearing dusk, and the sun has mellowed to a comfortable, seeping warmth against their backs. Yet again, if Baekhyun isn’t looking too full of himself at present, staring at the younger with the obvious hint of teasing in his small eyes, Jongin would love to tell him this was a good idea. A very great one. After all.

•  
•  
•  
  


  
"I think it's time we stand up for our right to intercede," Junmyeon gathers them all in his office, oak embellishment and realism furnishing most of the interior. "By all means, we're the ones gathering the rightful political-social framework from our studies."  
  
Jongin agrees. Joseon had, after all, been built under the hands of a military general; the Great Progenitor known to all eight provinces of the land. Taejong wanted absolute monarchy under his rule, but countless, thorough findings from scholars themselves have proved it to be rather debilitating than empowering, taking Japan's imperialism as the cautionary tale smuggled under whispers of the bourgeois around the peninsula.  
  
"The Ministry Department's' influence is strong," Baekhyun points out, smoothening the silk of his jeogori. "They want the royal family to be politically involved as much as possible, and when I say politically involved, I mean wanting them to be loop holed into their own selfish political agenda."  
  
"It's going to be difficult dealing with the State Councilors as well, but we'll try. We'll have to get them to listen to us. I know the King would, that's for certain."  
  
Frankly, Jongin thinks it's bound to be strenuous going against the stoic men of superior government position. Junmyeon and Baekhyun might have legal seats in the King’s administrative circle, but higher-ups don't really heed to suggestions of any level apart from their own. Their power exceeds the influence of the civil bureaucrat as a collective, successfully placing themselves as the highest deliberative body all over the capital.  
  
Theft. Corruption. Slavery. Royal Strife. Even treason, in its most subdued form— all have been entirely overlooked by governing bodies, even before the fall of the Three Kingdoms. That's why, Jongin knows, it's necessary for the King and his family members to remain, merely, as a symbolism of Joseon- and leave politics and its akin affairs to the country's executives.  
  
"We have the state ideology, our literal embodiment. The challenge is to get this point across officials and their self-absorbed objectives."  
  
"That's right, Jongin," Junmyeon nods, more so to himself. He addresses the whole room. "Always remember that we serve the public, the people. We do not condone to any man of greed, nor the inclination of money and power, and the injustice they may cause. Our loyalties, most importantly, lie in our nation, and in our nation, alone."  
  
  
  


  
•  
•  
•  
  
  
  
  
  
In the days following that _eventful_ afternoon, Jongin would see Kyungsoo at the same spot by the lake, still dedicated in taking amiable care of the fishes. He wonders, perplexedly, how Kyungsoo can seem so carefree and pure, choosing to constantly indulge himself in these simple acts of service. Jongin would eventually find himself taking breaks at the same hour, almost every day, hoping to chance upon Kyungsoo and ask him for slow, afternoon walks on the palace grounds for as long as time would allow them to.  
  
On some nights, Kyungsoo would show up at the library, working on his songs with the company of the seonbi. His musical narratives are heavily influenced by philosophy and nationalism, playing along with the occasional verses, so naturally, Kyungsoo would benefit from the help of Jongin and his fellow scholars. It discreetly feeds Jongin’s growing delight, making him much more driven and attentive on his late night manuscripts.  
  
Of course, this doesn’t go unnoticed, as Baekhyun and the group would take any chance they can get to follow the pair behind timber windows, clearly intrigued, after noticing the scholar’s constant lack of presence on most afternoons and the outlandish, lingering smile on his face whenever Kyungsoo pays his nightly visits at the library.

  
  
  
•

  
  
  
Jongin tosses a coin into the water, closing his eyes at the drip of copper breaking against the veneer of liquid.  
  
“What are you wishing for, Jongin-ssi?”  
  
Jongin hums, contemplating disclosure. “I’m not supposed to say it, otherwise it wouldn’t come true— but— perhaps I wished I wasn’t born human.”  
  
The confusion in Kyungsoo’s voice is too apparent. “What do you mean?”  
  
“I often find myself displeased at man’s display of pride and strength, because I know how fragile humanity really is, down to the core of our souls. Happiness. Determination. Anger. Jealousy. Forgiveness. Grief. Love. Loss? it’s tiring to feel all those. I’ve felt everything until I felt none at all. It’s draining and overwhelming, Kyungsoo-ssi. It’s a hefty ceasefire from pledged better days. I’d like to think I would probably be better at being a moss down a swamp.”  
  
“But...” Kyungsoo contends softly, eyes wide and telling. “That’s... isn’t that the very essence of being human? To suffer, to laugh, to _feel_? I’ve felt all those...but overtime I learned that the key is to not linger on a certain emotion, not to hover over a single blunder. Trust me, it will get better, Jongin-ssi. You are so much more than your past and your pain. So much more than sadness and sorrow. You are capable of happiness, hope, kindness, love. You are human, you’re not perfect and never will be, but it is where you never stop growing, never stop learning. You should never stop living. That’s why... I think it’s such a beautiful thing to be human, Jongin-ssi... especially when you choose to live your life for others.”  
  
Jongin sits there, looking at Kyungsoo like he’s some kind of paragon, marveling and unravelling him at the same time. With Kyungsoo, words and emotions have always been easier. Jongin can be himself around him; naturally vulnerable and harrowing. He wonders how such an incredible person could exist right beside his own dismantled being, unknowingly piecing the lost fragments together, making the universe a slightly bearable and better place to live in.  
  
He stares at the coin underwater, the round brass already showing streaks of opaqueness by each passing minute. Apparently, the ground is murkier than what the surface manifests it to be. With Kyungsoo, Jongin only hopes he could save all of his tossed wishes back.

  
  
  
  
•  
•  
•  
  
  


  
  
Jongin accidentally sees him by the back of the kitchen this time, quite unusual from their afternoon rendezvous setting at the lake. Kyungsoo is cautious; carefully covered, dark robe over his usual hanbok, a wide straw hat looming over half of his face. Jongin assumes the canister in his hands contains leftover food, since he just went through the ligneous door of the scullery.  
  
“Kyungsoo-ssi? Where are you going?”  
  
Kyungsoo freezes, greatly fazed by the voice and the sound of his name. He stands there, looking shaken, contemplating, until he wills himself to relax in front of Jongin. Kyungsoo grabs the scholar by the wrist, all with the apprehension and clamminess shrouding the whole of his own palm.  
  
  
  
  
  
Jongin is surprised when Kyungsoo takes him outside the palace, keeping their profiles low amidst the scurry of the crowd. They arrive a few kilometers away from the bustling district, at some poorly-reserved estate probably owned by one of the state’s retired generals. In fact, it looks more of a manufactory for livestock and chonmin alike, and Jongin couldn’t help but feel his heart constrict at the sight of forced laborers sweating on poor grounds, under the jarring heat of the mid-day sun.  
  
Kyungsoo had been nothing but silent since exiting the palace gates, so Jongin stays the same, not really knowing if there are any words he could offer. It’s until they approach a family of 3 inside a small hut— two kids, a boy and a younger girl, and a beautiful elderly woman who strangely resembles very much like—  
  
“Hello, eomma.” Kyungsoo bows, showing a soft smile. “I’m here again.”  
  
Jongin is motionless, completely struck by surprise. He stays there, unwavering, taking in the sight of Kyungsoo ruffling the kids’ hair, telling his mother he’s brought some food just in case there isn’t enough, and that she should share them with the workers. It’s desolate, undeserving; a heart of gold left with no other choice but to resort to survival in this world of dross. Jongin is seething. Hurt. Angry.  
  
“Don’t be,” Kyungsoo gives him a comforting smile, even despite everything. They’re on a bench outside the Doh’s shed. “I guess I trust you enough to bring you here, Jongin-ssi. You’ve met my mother— whom, they’ve always said, looks just like me—“  
  
“She does.”  
  
“—and those two dumplings, my nephew and my niece. Aren’t they adorable? My brother had been taken away to a new owner, secretly leaving his children behind. Father left some years ago, saying he’d go north of the peninsula to find work, but he hasn’t really returned since then. I may not see them anymore, but I still think about hyung and abeoji, every single day. I pray they’re always okay.”  
  
“I’m so sorry, Kyungsoo-ssi, I didn’t know,” Jongin offers. “But...you... how did you—“  
  
“—Insung owns this, everything and everyone here. He found me and took me as one of his concubines. Then, he practically sold me to the palace after finding out I can sing. It may appear good-natured and generous, but no, it’s just another way of making sure I’m always within his sight.”  
  
Jongin lets out a deep breath, one he’s been holding out of sheer frustration. Kyungsoo notices it, the poignant venom in Jongin’s expression, and he instantly tells him _it’s okay, really, they’re surviving everyday. Thank you for listening and being here with me, Jongin-ssi_.  
  
Jongin ends up extending his help through a few yangs, much to Kyungsoo’s constant distress. He buys food for the other laborers as well, plays with the kids, and enjoys an afternoon conversation with Kyungsoo’s mother. The moment they decide to head back, Kyungsoo’s nephew cries, clinging on to Jongin’s leg as he pleads for him to stay. “Let Kyungsoo hyung go alone instead!” which makes Kyungsoo fake a grumble, skittishly picking the young boy up before placing him in the embrace of his mother. They leave, Jongin waving back at the family with longing and remorse lingering inside his chest.  
  
  
Kyungsoo had gone silent again, even until they’ve returned to the palace grounds. Nightfall is already slowly setting in, gently painting the sky with blended hues of scarlet and merigold. No words, no gestures, no anything from the musician.  
  
“Kyungsoo-ssi...”  
  
Still nothing, for a brief, passing second, until Kyungsoo finally brings himself near, closing their distance, wrapping his shaky arms around Jongin in a comforting embrace.  
  
The air is quiet, surrounding them with deep-dyed silence until Jongin can only hear the white noise, until all he can feel is the sole warmth of Kyungsoo’s body against his. It is enough, Jongin thinks. Maybe this is more than enough.  
  
  
  
  
  


•  
•  
•

  
  
  
  
  
  
A touch. A stroke. A kiss. Kyungsoo dodges every single one, keeping his eyes downcast in the hopes of waning the disgust and fear he feels for himself. No amount of perpetual ratification can ever restore his dignity by now, but tonight, Kyungsoo wants to defy his own prejudice. He wants to _try_.  
  
“Whatever is the matter, my pretty boy? Getting sick of me already?” Insung drawls, one arm around Kyungsoo’s waist, the other hand cupping his jaw a bit too hard.  
  
Kyungsoo shrugs, mouth quivering in discomfort. Insung’s body feels like vitriol against his, as it always does. Kyungsoo maintains his gaze away, purposefully avoiding the malevolent eyes that had stirred a vast amount of hatred into him.

  
“My apologies, sir. Please allow me to rest early tonight, I am not feeling quite well. I could call for Madame Yuna, if you like.”  
  


Insung scoffs, bemused. “Huh,” He leans back, observing Kyungsoo with a scathing glare. “Your job is to serve my needs, pretty boy. Do you think I would care about how you feel? I liked it better when you just kept your mouth shut, when you simply took everything with that pretty, emotionless face while I do my ways with you. What happened, boy? You’re able to grasp feelings all of a sudden?”  
  
Kyungsoo doesn’t say anything. The yangban tugs on a forearm, harshly, and Kyungsoo struggles against the pain, under the degrading, watchful stare that’s denounced him to nearly nothing; to what’s left of his frail body and dying soul.  
  
“My boy, you witness these emotions in front of you once, and now you’re suddenly feeling brave? I wonder...how has this come to be…. Is it because of your family? Your friends here at the palace? Or... perhaps ...you’ve started to feel certain emotions towards a certain person?”  
  
And now, Kyungsoo couldn’t even say anything, because it’s true. He senses the tears threatening to fall, but he wills them not to, feeling uneasy at the display of vulnerability.  
  
It happens fast, as sharp as a cutting whirlwind. Kyungsoo is roughly pinned against the wall, forcibly stripped down to his waist, hanbok wrinkled and trunk exposed to the cold air of the evening. Kyungsoo tries to cover himself, and Insung grabs him by the hair, ignoring the pained cries coursing through his mouth.  
  
“The nerve you have, my boy. It’s about time you should break free from that foolish head of yours. Love is a privilege you can only dream to have. People like you— who belong to me— are made to work, to serve, to succumb, not to boast your fancy around with filth under your cheap shoes. Low lives like you don’t deserve the high liberties. You are plainly a burden to everyone around you—“  
  
“— _Fuck you_ ,” Kyungsoo spits, eyes fuming in anger. “I _never_ belonged to you. You don’t know anything about me. You don’t know anything about us, the people at the bottom of the food chain, the very same ones exhausting ourselves to death just to keep your self-absorbed asses from hunger when we’re barely even fed. You don’t know anything about love, Insung, because you have no heart, much more a soul. I may be a fool for dreaming, but you— you’re just a pitiful, disgusting, insolent walking scarecrow of a man—“  
  
A slap, and Kyungsoo is rendered silent, the sting and surprise coiling into one suffocating shackle that keeps him rooted on the carpeted floor. Insung gets on his feet, towering over the musician like a menacing shadow.  
  
“I guess I don’t pay you enough to learn respect, my pretty boy,” He sneers, walking towards the door. “My mood is depleted tonight. Fix yourself and go back to your room. Remember your place, Doh Kyungsoo. If I experience one more defiance, hear one more remark from those dirty lips of yours, your puny family is going to suffer the consequences....and I will make sure you’re at hand to witness it all, right before your very eyes.”  
  
As Insung saunters out of the room, heavy steps resounding along the fabricated panels, Kyungsoo collapses on the floor, shakenly clutching his clothes, wrapping himself in a protective cocoon. He cries and cries, and despite the tears and snot and drool pooling on his baji and on Insung’s expensive rug, Kyungsoo only wishes he could afford to care.  
  
Past the velvet curtains, the cobalt rose porcelain and an old collection of Gaya armour and brigandine he sees on a regular basis, Kyungsoo folds to the deafening sorrow, drowning in the noise of his own pain and inhibitions. Behind the sturdy corners, he is kept from the curious and prying eyes of palace men, but it’s disconcerting how Kyungsoo feels more watched than ever, small and alone in the plight of his confounding misery.  
  


  
  
•  
•  
•

  
  
_Ai. Gu. No. O._

_Yok. Hyi. Ai._  
  
  
If there had been four beginnings, as transcribed by Yi Yolguk, there were also the seven emotions.  
  
  


  
_Sorrow_. A week has passed, and then a few more. In his discourse against time, Jongin notices it’s been a month since the last time he’s properly spoken to Kyungsoo. It was, in retrospect, the day they visited his family in one of Insung’s manors.  
  
_Fear_. He would see Kyungsoo of course, around the palace grounds, at the Royal Hall as a musician, and on much fewer days, at the institute. Most of the time, he was with Insung. Jongin and Kyungsoo would exchange a few words, a half-hearted acknowledgement along the hallways, but apart from the slipped heeds against fleeting time, there were none. The afternoon walks are already non-existent, the nights in the library cut short. Jongin is confused, constantly asking himself _What have I done wrong?_ He can feel the edges of the tightrope slowly reaching his fingertips. Jongin is afraid.  
  
_Anger_. The memories of Kyungsoo’s family, the slaves and low-born treated like cattle like they could easily be taken away— they reappear and cast a hole in Jongin’s chest like a flaring shrapnel, making him feel disdain towards his own people, his own nation, the entirety of the universe. Even towards himself.  
  
_Hate_. It’s a word too fervid for Jongin’s liking, too strong of an emotion to be embodied, even. Jongin believes it will always cause an endless cycle, thus causing him to close doors from such temperament. If there’s one thing Jongin does hate, it is hate itself— the mainspring of injustice, greed, bigotry. The seething tip of the iceberg for some, a freezing downfall for many. It is the persistent, blinded virtue of people like Insung. Jongin despises hate. It is the sole deterrent between humanity and the universe from their abstract harmonious relationship.  
  
_Desire_. There is a certain feeling of want that Jongin has been hiding from himself. It’s formidable, when they’re strolling along profuse tulip gardens and serene ponds. Profound, especially on quiet nights among the stillness of book shelves; mingled breaths getting lost in the dark, laughter astray between knowing smiles and shared glances. It’s the feeling of wanting a certain musician by his side, every minute and every hour of his passing days. Jongin wants the large, expressive eyes, the adorable button nose, the heart-shaped lips. He wants the remarkable patience, the unmatched bravery, the unbelievable kindness this person has always shown him. Jongin wants all of him, the wounds and the victories, the yesterdays and tomorrows. He wants for the certain feeling to be reciprocated, too.  
  
_Joy_. Jongin feels it with fear— the conscious distress of elation rising inch by inch, a mile longer each day, constantly building in the premises of his heart— only to realize that one day, it might all be seized and taken away. He feels it around his family, his late father, his friends; with a newly discovered book, or on a recently concluded study. Jongin most especially feels it with that certain person; with his smile and his laughter, the slightest touch of their shoulders everytime they’re together. Happiness is the resolute memory of his warm embrace. It’s the relic of moments and recollection pieced together, beautifully culminating into the person of his desires. For Jongin, making him happy is the greatest joy he could ever procure, even if it would cost his own.  
  


  
_Love_.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


•  
•  
•

  
  
  
Court meetings at high noon aren’t usually orchestrated, but because the King had received an important notice prior to the assembly, adjustments were to be made, and everyone— from the senior first to the junior ninth rank— are naturally expected to follow the shift.  
  
The seonbi aren’t licitly called to join these meetings, so Jongin and Sehun situate themselves at the sidelines, discreetly far from the executive line-up, but near enough to listen to the conclave (and keenly take notes from Junmyeon and Baekhyun).  
  
Jongin isn’t the least bit surprised when he sees Insung across the hall, sitting with the Six Ministries like he’d been rightfully invited to the agenda. It’s all in plain hindsight, how Insung is sitting beside Yifan from Justice, who is also known to be a dubious companion of his. Wealth and power can, in point of a grave fact, pay for one’s sins under the indemnity of his exuberant cloak.  
  
  
  
  
  
The meeting proceeds, customarily, with usual state dealings being discussed. The supply of brocades and ginseng are still adequate at the port of Pyongnam, ready for international shipment. Trade relations with Manchuria are still healthy. Imperial China is still observing the laissez-faire, and Taejo repeatedly emphasizes he will make sure Joseon remains autonomous in its external and internal affairs.  
  
A national envoy is concurrently in the works, preparing for a diplomatic mission in Japan. Should there be any conspiracies of purges and rebellions in the country, the civil guards will have to report to the Investigation Bureau.  
  
“My sincere apologies for the interruption,” Yifan suddenly addresses the hall, voice deep and firm. “But I want to raise a concern regarding the Japanese folk outside of town.”  
  
The State Councilor hums. “What of it, Officer Wu?”  
  
“I received word from one of the inspectors that the grave diggers haven’t been able to settle their dues for a month now. Moreover, the women have kept conceiving children, resulting in a difficult situation for the population and their needs. That is why I strongly suggest we abolish their sector and have every single one of them, including our own chonmin, shipped to Haeju for relocation. The province will suit them, for it is still underdeveloped.”  
  
Jongin curses under his breath. What a monster. Haeju is the _hellfire_ capital of slaves. His eyes immediately fly to Insung and his pensive, grueling expression— the yangban is well-aware of the said district encompassing Kyungsoo’s family, the laborers, and the slaves. If they were to be wiped out as planned, Kyungsoo would be devastated.  
  
Whispers and hushed conversations are starting to circle around the tables. The Ministry has always eclipsed the State Council in taking control of the executive role, and decision-making would always warrant a stretched period of juxtaposed arguments. The King remains silent on the throne, eyes closed, gracefully patient as ever. Junmyeon and the Special Advisors are unspeaking, busily forging their own suggestion, one that would be morally considerate for all the parties involved.  
  
Jongin scans the room, looking for a possible, plausible ground, until he sees a silhouette behind one of the concrete pillars. He discreetly moves past Sehun, curious, following the obstructed line of his sight. His breath hitches when he sees Kyungsoo, hiding in the shadows, presumably listening to the ordeal with his back against the cement.  
  
Kyungsoo, who is visibly shaking, eyes wide in disbelief as the rise and fall of his chest continue to hasten.

Jongin wants to run to him, wants to grab his hand and protect him from this deranged torment; but just when Jongin is about to impetuously do so, Kyungsoo peels himself from the sidelines and goes to the middle of the hall, shakily propping his knees and elbows and head against the solid ground.  
  
Kyungsoo gives a full bow to the whole congregation. “My King— sirs and lords— I hope you will consider your decisions. Please don’t abolish them—“  
  
“— _My King, sirs and lords_ , I deeply apologize for this utter display of contempt,” Insung grits, his anger concealed under the guise of formality. “I believe this boy has more important things and errands to do. The Royal Guard will take care of him—“  
  
“—No, please! I beg of you! Please do consider! I will do anything...” Kyungsoo finally lifts his head, the once tranquil exterior torn down into a face devoid of hope and purpose. The fresh tears roll down, droplet by droplet, and Jongin feels he could die, helpless, at that precise moment.  
  
“The court heavily decides on that, good sir. I believe your opinion, no matter the intention, would not affect the final ruling in any way.” Yifan speaks, the calm tone ambling on borderline apathy.  
  
One of the Royal Guards enters into the hall, red robe dancing with each pronounced step as he makes his way towards a still pleading Kyungsoo. The spear in his hold is intimidating, the flat cutting edge pointed high to the ceiling as he reaches for the musician’s body—  
  
“—Don’t touch him,” until Jongin arrives, arms defensively splayed out in front of the soldier, catching him in an incredulous pause. Jongin is panting, having pushed himself to make it just in the nick of time. Kyungsoo looks up at the Royal Guard, then at Jongin’s figure between them, and his face contorts into one of surprise and remission.  
  
“Jongin—“  
  
“My King, please heed to the cries of your countrymen. I believe this can be dealt in numerous ways other than that of injudicious reasoning.”  
  
“Kim Jongin-ssi,” Insung sneers from his seat, every syllable laced with sheer hostility. “I kindly ask to _please_ leave yourself out of this. The Royal Guards will take care of him and the punishment he deserves—“  
  
“— _We_ will take care of him,” Baekhyun’s words are overawing as the Royal Hall turns completely silent. “My King, my good lords— I earnestly suggest we consider the decision to expel our own countrymen. Please, let us discuss this within reasonable means.”  
  
Jongin is joined by Sehun, who is gently coaxing the musician out of his bent position. Kyungsoo concedes weakly, only after hearing Baekhyun’s words. Hardly a minute later, Junmyeon arrives to quietly lead them out of the hall, after ensuring they were all to pay their respects and apologies to the King thereafter.  
  
“Enough,” Taejo finally states from his throne, voice calm yet dominant of authority. “This dispute was uncalled for, as it was already deemed crucial we are not to waste any more time in today’s gathering.” He then turns to the Chief State Councilor. “Prepare for another assembly next week. I trust there won’t no more interruptions of any kind as we will finally settle this matter by then.”  
  
Baekhyun sighs, tense shoulders finally relaxing in his seat. They knew it wasn’t going to be easy, dealing with the higher-ups. The thunderclouds are already looming for the days ahead, dark and indignant, yet as long as there’s still a silver lining on the cumulus above their heads, they will do everything to calm the outpouring of a storm.  
  


  
  
•

•  
  
  
  
Jongin is careful when he smoothes out the mattress. He folds the blanket gently, avoiding any creases, propping it alongside the pillows. He also sets down a pot of warm water, a plate of fresh apples and pears, and a cup of turmeric tea, as per the unceasing request of Junmyeon.  
  
The court physician had advised for an accompaniment, just to make sure Kyungsoo would feel safeguarded and stable for the next few days. Jongin volunteered, without a doubt, already on edge after the drastic turn of events earlier. He wants to make sure Kyungsoo will always be out of harm’s way, protected without a single gash.  
  
Jongin is waiting in Kyungsoo’s room, patient and musing, mulling over the aftermath of the court meeting when sharp, crude knocks are suddenly being heard from the door.  
  
Jongin slides it open and is let down by the ire and annoyance he feels when the yangban comes into view instead.  
  
Insung glowers, returning the disdain. “Where’s the boy?”  
  
“ _Kyungsoo_ is still at the physician’s office. He has a consultation. If you have anything you wish to convene to him, you can say it through me.”  
  
The laughter from Insung is vile, one that is increasingly mocking and infuriating as it bubbles in his throat.  
  
“Kim Jongin-ssi... I believe my suspicions about you two have been right all along. Of course it helps that I have eyes around the palace, lest you forget. Tell me, honestly, whatever is your business with that low life? The boy is just a commoner. He’s only lucky he has a pretty face and a scanty talent; a family name from what they could salvage off the remains of his ancestry. Do not concern yourself with him, scholar.”  
  
Jongin sneers. “I don’t think any of your opinion would matter on how I handle my business with Kyungsoo, Insung-ssi. Firstly, you cannot even address him by his name, which is highly disrespectful for a person of your position. Second, whatever ‘business’ I have with him, it does not concern you, and it is surely better than your own tactless scheme. I know you want the burakumin demolished because you’ve formed alliances with them. Sadly, you cannot maintain their conditions for the fear of having to sacrifice a few coins off your filthy pockets, so the easiest method is to send them away. You befriended the Japanese because you want henchmen in your secret plan. You want to start a warfare, because admit it, Insung-ssi, your loyalty still remains within the ashes of Goryeo. You’ve been wanting to overthrow Taejo, right from the beginning.”  
  
Insung slams the wall, hard, his dark eyes blaring out fire above a disgruntled mouth. “Watch your words, seonbi—“  
  
“—And you’re afraid, that without the Japanese benefitting off your promised ‘help’, they would start an uprising on their own, against _you_ , instead. You’re afraid they might take you down with them, because truthfully, we both know they _can,_ Insung-ssi.”  
  
Beyond wrathful, Insung raises a fist in front of the scholar’s face. “You really don’t know when to shut that mouth of yours, Jongin-ssi. People who know too much are a danger to my ploy. I can easily get rid of all of you, anytime, in any way I would want to.”  
  
Jongin thinks he is likely saved from an assault when Baekhyun arrives through the hallway, just as Insung had been clenching hard around his collar. The yangban retracts, clearing his throat and throwing a quick acknowledgement towards the Right Minister.  
  
Baekhyun ignores him. “Jongin, I wish to talk to you. In private. Inside.”  
  


  
Insung throws Jongin a glare, menacing with an antipathy reaching beyond the crevices of his spine. It leaves a bitter imprint in Jongin’s head, him and Baekhyun carefully keeping their eyes on Insung’s back as he finally walks away.  
  
  
  
  
Baekhyun had been Jongin’s savior, having heard the heated conversation behind the nearest corner. He decided to intervene then, not wanting for another ordeal to transpire at this time of the night, especially not after the disastrous incident in front of the King. The Inspector General had pounded them with a surge of paperwork enough to last a whole dynasty.  
  
“Always be on your guard, Jongin-ah. We all know Insung can be insufferable,” was Baekhyun’s last words before the elder eventually decided to retire to his room.  
  
  
  
Jongin is left alone again, still waiting for Kyungsoo to return from his consultation. In the quiet passing of minutes, he’s come to a radical discernment from the events of today, the days before that, and more importantly so on the days after meeting Kyungsoo.  
  
Jongin dawdles on the uncertainties, the torn edges. He wants to fix the tiny cracks on the wall between them— the small faults he knows would eventually break into one giant rift. More than anything, Jongin wants to protect the mirth behind Kyungsoo’s eyes, the dainty shape of his lips, the purity in his laughter. These are the flowers that grow between the cracks, the color against the monochrome, the fragile strands that Jongin hopes would hold them together anyway, no matter how perilous it would become.  
  
  
“Jongin-ssi?” The deep, familiar voice is muffled behind the door. Jongin turns and feels happy to finally see Kyungsoo stepping inside the room, a pliant smile on the musician’s face.  
  
“Kyungsoo-ssi. You look well.” Jongin notes, relieved.  
  
“I feel a lot better, thankfully. Yunho-nim made me rest for a few hours, then gave me my medicine after I woke up. He told me you’d be waiting in my room.”  
  
“Ah, yes. I offered to watch over you for the next few days.”  
  
Kyungsoo beams, slowly making his way to the table. The display of food is enticing, reminding him that he hasn’t eaten a single meal since this morning. Kyungsoo sees the extra blanket beside his own, yet no sight of a mattress, and wonders where Jongin would possibly take his rest for the day. Maybe he can try requesting for a spare fabric from one of the palace women.  
  
“Jongin-ssi, come, let’s eat together.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
  
As Kyungsoo quietly eats his portions, Jongin stares at his own plate, the fresh apples and pears precipitating certain fragments, like a faraway cry loud enough to echo in his bland memories. He looks at Kyungsoo and realizes that _this_ — being alone with him, spending quiet hours together in the sunken fraction of the day— is all Jongin needs, will certainly ever need, for the rest of his forthcoming days.  
  
“Jongin-ssi,”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Thank you,” Kyungsoo says, clamorous in the silence of the night. “For always being there for me....despite everything.”  
  
There’s a gaudy softness in Jongin’s voice when he answers. “You know I’ll do anything for you, Kyungsoo-ssi.”  
  
Kyungsoo seems to ponder at the words, smiling shyly as he reaches an injunction in his train of thoughts. He goes to the small study beside his drawers and carefully peels a sheet off an old pile of some. Kyungsoo scoots closer to Jongin, pursing his lips as he carefully unfolds the parchment.  
  
“I- Um, the song I’ve been working on...all those nights...” Like revealing an enigma, Kyungsoo confesses, his cheeks showing a faint blush. “It’s actually for you, Jongin-ssi.”  
  
There is warmth pooling under Jongin’s skin, rippling in waves until it tugs at the narrow strings of his heart. A grisly storm has been cleared. If Jongin could put a name to this emotion, it would be _joy_.  
  
“Please, Kyungsoo-ssi, sing it for me.”  
  
The twitch of Kyungsoo’s hand tells he is anxious towards the suggestion, but after grappling with the minutes he eventually agrees, determined, fingers clinging on to the papery edges as he begins the song. In a tamed caliber, Kyungsoo sings, emotions slowly rising with the velvet richness of his voice.  
  
  


  
_The calm pools of a bayou_

_surrounded by camphorwood_

_Evergreen_

_Lilacs of cream petals_

_Dancing with the zephyr_

_High noon, an advent_

_Olive under the scintillating sky_

_Daylight meets the lost_

_Hope and light_

_Because woe knows him not_

_He must be the sun_

_Aglow among blossoms_

_Divine_

_Felicity of mine_  
  
  


And when it comes to an end, the scholar kisses him, chaste and fleeting against the cushion of Kyungsoo’s mouth.  
  
Jongin hauls in an instant, a beat too fast, a minute too petrified. He tries to draw out an apology, an excuse, anything to justify the fervent urge in his system when Kyungsoo suddenly pulls him back, one hand pressing against the expanse of Jongin’s nape, the song carelessly discarded somewhere under the table.  
  
The kiss starts out soft, like the distant saccharine of a first time, hearts hammering, lips lingering, the beginnings of a first love testing out the wild waters.  
  
Then it magnifies, when Jongin sweeps a tongue and Kyungsoo helplessly lets him in, slick muscles dancing around each other in the unfamiliar, intoxicating taste of their slotted mouths.  
  
Kyungsoo moans into the kiss, and Jongin feels his blood flaring at the sound, coiling into a tight knot that sends him into an intractable frenzy. If Jongin could put a name to this emotion, even in his heady state of mind, he would call this _desire_. Jongin sucks on Kyungsoo’s tongue, messily, letting his hands roam over every inch of Kyungsoo’s shoulders, down to the slope of his back, his slender hips, stopping to rest on the curves of his ass.  
  
It’s raw. Sublime. Jongin doesn’t want it all to end, doesn’t want to stop feeling the man’s lips, the sensual warmth of his body, the teasing touch of his fingertips; but when Kyungsoo starts to uncontrolledly grind against his crotch, the hardness apparent even through the thick fabric of their hanbok, Jongin realizes it would take a pinnacle for him to be able to stop if they persist— and he knows it isn’t the right time yet— not when there’s still a mountain of plagues in head, stopping him from being able to give Kyungsoo everything.  
  
Jongin does want him to feel good, above anything else. He wants to make it work without the nuances constantly lurking around like ghosts, waiting for the perfect, unguarded opening; so he gathers the will to gently pull away, choosing to settle on Kyungsoo’s neck instead. Jongin lets his lips dote butterfly presses and the occasional open-mouthed kisses over the soft skin.  
  
“Kyungsoo-ssi....”  
  
“ _Jongin_ , please...” Kyungsoo is still panting, mouth open and slick with spit, eyelashes fluttering prettily in a trance. Jongin thinks it’s the most alluring imagery he’s ever seen. “We’re already all over each other and you’re still... that honorific...”  
  
“ _Kyungsoo_...” Jongin sighs, half-smiling against the musician’s skin. “ _Aein_..”  
  
Kyungsoo turns red, feeling his face heat up at the endearment. _Sweetheart_. He peels himself away, pacifying his breaths like he’s coming down from a momentary high. Jongin mischievously steals a peck as Kyungsoo settles on the floor, facing him.  
  
“Kyungsoo, I... I want to talk to you about something. This is a matter I’ve been thinking about, a lot, while you were at the Court Physician’s.”  
  
A pause, eyes flickering in puzzlement. “Oh. What is it, Jongin?”  
  
Maybe it’s the uneasiness of his nerves, or the increasingly stiff air of the summer evening, but Jongin is suddenly wavering, the prospect of dropping this subject not too far from his reach. He chooses to continue, anyway.  
  
“Insung actually came in earlier. He was looking for you, and we had, uh— sort of a conflict. Insung knows that I know, about everything that’s happening with him. He threatened me, and you, and your family. Baekhyun arrived before he was able to land a fist on me.”  
  
Kyungsoo frowns, worry and contrition visible on his face. “I- I’m so sorry, Jongin. You don’t deserve to be in this mess.” He wants to say a lot more, maybe a tedious ode of regret and apology only Jongin rightfully deserves, but Kyungsoo is too fear-stricken of the guilt consuming him from the inside.  
  
“Don’t be. I want you to know that I’m right here, in this whole mess, together with you.”  
  
Jongin takes Kyungsoo’s hands in his, thumbs mindlessly caressing the smooth expanse of skin. He relishes in the affection.  
  
“Kyungsoo... I need you to know that you’re really important to me. I would do everything I can just to keep you away from danger. I’m willing to go through anything, risk anything, as long as I know you’re always safe. I hope that... you’re willing to do the same thing, for yourself.  
  
I thought a lot about... letting you live with my family in Gangwon. We’re not wealthy, but we humbly get by on a daily basis. Abeoji and I left vacant rooms back in the house. My sisters run a small business— you can sell vegetables with them if you like. You and, of course, your family would be much protected there. I will pay my visits by the end of every week.”  
  
“Jongin, I— I don’t know, this is too much—“  
  
“— It’s not. Nothing will ever be too much when it comes to you, Kyungsoo.” Jongin exclaims, just low enough for Kyungsoo to hear. He kisses a knuckle. “Please. I need you to think about. It kills me to know that you could be in harm here, anywhere, anytime. God forbid something would happen. I wouldn’t... I don’t even want to think about it.”  
  
Kyungsoo lets a tear slide down, too saturated by everything, and Jongin immediately wipes it away like a stain on the mirror. The gentle evening wind is suddenly too cold against the folds of his hanbok. Kyungsoo just wants to lie down, wants to close himself off and have the world on a momentary stop.  
  
“Let me think about it, alright?” Kyungsoo looks up, trying to don a smile despite the visible reflection of sadness. “Let me... because I would really want that, more than anything in the world. I’ll think about it. I’m really tired right now though, and I just want to rest, and— just, _thank you so much_ , Jongin.”  
  
Jongin can only nod, thinking about the things Kyungsoo is probably going through, all the pressure and turmoil piling at the brink of his breaking point. He concedes, after realizing he’s gotten too far ahead of himself, and decides to focus on the Kyungsoo right here, right now.  
  
Jongin settles by a corner, back resting against the wall, watching Kyungsoo as the man lays comfortably on his soft mattress. He considers closing his eyes for the night when Kyungsoo suddenly shifts, orbs glistening expectantly, fingers tapping suggestively on the empty space beside him.  
  
  
“Come sleep with me tonight.”  
  
  
  


  
Confounding, in the seasons of snow over dry rooftops, hours absorbed by ledges and unfinished manuscripts, and the incalculable days numbered until of a paramount rebirth, how one can sift through everything and still be able to tell the needle apart from the haystack— like picking a particular memory, a projection of a certain longing. How, despite being in a gateway of endless fragments, one exemplary stands out from the others, virtuous of being deeply rooted in the facets of the human subconscious.  
  
These fragments also make up a bigger picture— a collective of tears, drawn out smiles, outbursts, and shared laughter— a hilarious jest of a friend, an unparalleled advice from a father, the shy heated waves of a first kiss. The needles keep increasing in number, and they would eventually gyrate into a wistful stream of memories people can freely go back to, time and time again, just to remember what they’d used to feel like.  
  
  
The smoke from the melted candle arises languidly, gossamer vines of ash floating around the space of the room. Some other nights, the silence would have been deafening, too domineering to lull Jongin into an unworried rest. Yet right now, he learns to be indebted for it— for only in silence can he hear Kyungsoo’s breathing, clear and steady, the delicate inhales and soft exhales unwinding, even the resonance of his light snores. Jongin is appreciative of the darkness— because it’s paradoxical how it gives satisfying light to the slope of Kyungsoo’s nose, the thickness of his eyebrows, the appeal of his eyelashes, and the color of his lips.  
  
He sees and hears and feels Kyungsoo around him, head tapered on his chest, arms secured unyieldingly around his waist, and thinks this is how his nights should always be, from now on— placid, comfortable, kind— even in the loud silence and blinding darkness. Kyungsoo in his embrace, under every passing moonlight, their breathing swathed over their bodies like the safest blanket. Jongin wants to remember this forever— the peace and warmth and joy— wants to collect them like needles and bury them under the haystack, away from the unpleasant memories in his mind. Jongin knows he would want to relive them, time and time again for as long as this lifetime would allow him to, and even the next.  
  
If Jongin could place a name to this emotion, the effortless calm to his chaos, he would call this _love_.  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
•  
•  
•  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
Time mocks Sehun as he trips over a rock, the youngest cursing under the August sun at how mishaps like these are always untimely, relentlessly teasing him before every important assembly at the institute.  
  
“You’re dumb,” says Taemin, crouching in laughter.  
  
Jongin watches the two bicker, taking in the parched grounds and the humid air as they walk through the familiar pathway. He deliberately hovers on his feet, slowing down to a stop by the lakeside, and tells Taemin and Sehun not to wait for him because _Junmyeon might get mad if not one of us shows up_.  
  
Luckily, it’s still there— the prevailing pile of pebbles Jongin has built over the past couple of days. He would find himself coming back to the damp grounds, over and over again, to the lonely nostalgia of memories sinking and floating around the limitless waters.  
  
In the longest summer of his life, Jongin has grown past the ups and the downs, the trajectory and the setbacks. He’s learned to live through arbitrary decisions and labyrinthine sacrifices. There’s the sound of triumph when he remembers their efforts— how Insung and his men are presently on watch, investigated under the same rug for the records of their immorality, and how Junmyeon has successfully proposed to dismantle the chonmin system. It’s only the beginning, the smallest of steps, but he knows he couldn’t wait to see the day slaves would run free, having full control of their lives, protected under the lawful constitution of their nation.  
  
Of course, amidst the breakthrough, Jongin would still feel the longing everytime he passes by Kyungsoo’s room and finds it dark, dauntingly shadowless. He feels the needles pricking on his skin when he dreams of the man, luminous and beautiful in the dead of the night, and the thorns would wake him up. Jongin knows he has to live through that sacrifice— that they have to face the risks that come with it, no matter the trials. Everything will soon remain to be momentary, he hopes. For now, Jongin is eased by the fact that Kyungsoo is already in a much better place.  
  


  
He closes his eyes, putting his palms together, and says a prayer to the calm waters and the dead leaves by his feet. He tells his father, with a glassy heart, that perhaps being human has never been about the wisdom of existence or the elaborate fear of regrets; that being human is to actually live through it all— the mistakes and the celebrations. Being human is to humble yourself under the knowledge that everything shall pass by eventually, that life is indeed the shortest thing we have, because the memories are like needles on your skin, the twinge persisting long enough to be remembered for another passing lifetime. Truly, in the conquest of establishing that harmonious relationship with the universe, only humans can justify and find their way out of a disorder. Humans would always find the resilience in the despair, even if the universe had blinded them beyond its own unfathomable means.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
•  
•  
•

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“My son, are you sure you’ll be okay without Jung-ah?”  
  
“Yes, eomeonim. I’ll be fine.”  
  
  
Kyungsoo smiles, bowing as the old lady makes her way back to the main house. Jongin’s resemblance to his mother is uncanny— the high cheekbones, the shape of his nose, the sweetness of his smile. He sighs, contentedly dancing around the thought of having two mother figures in his life now.  
  
Life has been uneventful in the convenient sense, and Kyungsoo is very grateful. A month ago, after moving to Gangwon with the help of Jongin, Baekhyun, and a few service men, Kyungsoo and his family had been anxious of the possible outcome. He thinks they might be of a burden, an addition to the existing worries of Jongin’s family. After all, nobody would want slaves and low-born stepping on the carefully maintained floors of the middle-class.  
  
But Kyungsoo had been proven wrong when they arrived at the Kims’ doorstep, feeling all timid and apprehensive, only to find out that Jongin’s sisters have been relentless the previous night just to make sure the rooms would be neat and ready; that Jongin’s mother had brought out an extra table and prepared bigger portions of rice and samgyetang for Kyungsoo and his family. Freedom had been merely a dream, and there are days where he still couldn’t grasp the newfound reality of doing normal work, sleeping under a safe house, living a mundane life. It’s when they asked him to drop the honorifics and call them e _omoni, noona_ instead, that Kyungsoo finally came into terms with their kindness and accepted the hospitality they’ve been continually offering.  
  
  
Kyungsoo likes Gangwon. It’s quiet, and fairly spared from crime playing out in hindsight. The sangmin also have decent toil in agriculture, entirely different from the conditions back in the capital.  
  
He’s already sold half of the commodities, rose hip and licorice root the most prominent among local magistrates and common people alike. Herbal teas have been a staple during the balmy mornings and cool evenings of the brewing fall. Jung-ah noona has left to look after Rahee, her daughter, and she’s asked Kyungsoo the favor of taking her place for the rest of the day.  
  
“Kyung-chun! Kyung-chun!” Raeon, the brother, runs to the stall carrying a fairly huge parcel in tiny hands. Kyungsoo will always find the nickname amusing, a playful combination of _Kyungsoo_ and _samchun_.  
  
“Raeon-ah, careful or you might trip,” Kyungsoo ruffles the boy’s hair. “What’s that? Is it something for me?”  
  
“Yes! Halmeoni said it’s a present,” Raeon says, grinning, the front of his teeth still missing an incisor. Kyungsoo chuckles and thanks the boy, gently taking the scroll from Raeon’s hold.  
  
  
When Kyungsoo opens the parchment, he sees the familiar, graceful strokes against the stout hanji. He misses Jongin so much— the person he considers the light of his life, his greatest blessing. The scholar had been nothing but a constant presence of solace since the first time they met. Shame and guilt have consumed Kyunsgoo to an agonizing degree when he worked for Insung, especially affecting the way he sees himself, but with Jongin, he could always easily downplay those emotions. Jongin looks at Kyungsoo like he’s the only person in his hindsight, without judgement, past the shallow status and the lamentable choices. He sees worth, something Kyungsoo has been struggling with persuading towards himself. When Kyungsoo looks at Jongin, he sees one more reason to continue living— a bright, radiant promise of a better day under a shy smile; behind a beautiful expanse of golden skin touched by the amber sun.  
  
Jongin had written about being busy in the palace, that he’s still trying to find time to visit Gangwon, hoping the letters would at least suffice for the time being. Kyungsoo can only yield through his heavy sighs, feeling a bit disappointed, yet he knows he will never waste the chance to write back, to tell Jongin he would wait for him no matter how long.  
  
Kyungsoo is surprised though, when he finds another sheet instead of the usual paper flowers Jongin would send along with the letters. It’s another message, intricate and elegantly lined as ever, albeit this time the missive is longer, ambitiously extending to the backside of the paper.  
  


  
Perplexed, Kyungsoo begins to read.

_Gloom is_

_but the absence of light_

_the languor filling the courtyard_

_a friend to unending sorrows_

_a foe to the same_

_Silent, deafening_

_Woe has woefully known of me_

_clandestine in the deep woods_

_as I try to run from its snares_

_Gloom becomes me thusly_

_Fortuitous, the windfall that is you_

_Freeing me from the murk under_

_Your soul halcyon, brave, beguiling_

_Beautifully burning the dark_

_From afar, a butterfly surfacing from the trenches_

_Gloom is_

_but a distant caterwaul_

_Since your ardor has become of me_

_When you sing,_

_Magnolias bloom_

_I would spend a thousand wakeful nights_

_If it means to see your smile at first light_

_My sweetheart_

_My love_

**Author's Note:**

> Ahhh a mess ;~; i hope this would all make sense anyway. Another attempt at period au (and a first at poetry!!! cries) since i love history, but the thorough research I did could only uphold so much LOL. 
> 
> A huge thanks to the mods for being a blessing all throughout the fest. I hope everyone’s safe and healthy at all times! ♡


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